


Bound, But Unbroken

by RichmanBachard



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Child Loss, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Sad Cowboy Hours, parental grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RichmanBachard/pseuds/RichmanBachard
Summary: The cowboy suffered the hauntings, endured them all, many as they were. John would be haunted until the day he died. And now another soul was looking over him until that day came. Another set of eyes he wished so terribly he could see.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston
Kudos: 13





	Bound, But Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> Sad cowboy hours. Takes place between the RDR2 epilogue and Red Dead one.

The heat of sun kissed the supple ground which John stood upon. He removed the expansive width of his eggshell-colored hat, lightly swiping the small shred of grime upon it against the front of his cherry-red duster, to and fro. The heat weighed itself heavily upon him, his clothing only doing so much to assist with keeping cool. With the grime wiped away he placed the hat back atop his head, then drew a gloved hand across his brow, taking some of his sweat with it. John took a breath, his eyes looking to find the sun having moved just past noon. He pursed his lips and gave his chin a rub. Only a few hours more before he would have to set camp, lest he ride back amidst the dark. 

John never minded the ride. Not much. Galloping along the paths with Kep under the crisp, night sky night had become something of a retreat for him, a luxury - taking in the fresh, night air. Something to savor. In recent weeks he had done so frequently, given the work on offer. Farm life for the Marston’s were good. Profitable, to a point. But more money would always be needed, for one reason or another. And often the cowboy would find himself rather restless. Hunting gigs, bounties, helping any random folk, any shred of a map adorned with the location of possible treasure.. the land was his bread and butter, traversing it was hardly the issue. The people? He minded them just fine, some more than most. A kind nod, a tip of the hat. It felt comforting - to still be himself, yet seemingly accepted by the masses. Imparting a kindness here and there, even amongst the occasional naysayer. In recent weeks Marston had ventured from the scorching heat of Tumbleweed to the labyrinth of Saint Denis and back. And so he met tons. Though, with continuous travel, it took hours. Hour upon hour of horseback, even some via train and carriage. And in that time he was left all to himself and his thoughts. He missed Abigail and Jack terribly.

He.. regarded Uncle. Mostly. 

Rufus? Had grown on him.

With recollection came something worse: a pang of remorse spreading through his chest quickly as he scribbled down another anecdote into his journal. His eyes couldn’t help but gloss over the page next to his recent writing—as it bore the rough outline of a crib upon it, he looked over the tiny details he had added previously, time and again. A small smile creased his dry lips. A smile, which sagged into the faintest frown. His eyes wandered still, over the rough sketch of a baby’s face and-

_Bap_ , closed the book, as he nestled it back within his satchel. With a heavy sigh, his mind remained forced to dance along the pain of remembrance - of the past three months. Of her and what could have been.

Out of the corner of his eye Kep had begun to stir, buckling as she scuffed her hooves against the dirt just as the trail began to clear. He smiled faintly at that, giving her side a several few affectionate pats before phishing a spare apple from his satchel to feed to her. As she crunched away at the bulk of the fruit, his eyes cast towards the sky again - a bright blue, marked only with a slight few blemishes. Cloud cover, ushering in. A look of malaise came over him once more—or rather, it had never left, only hid itself amongst the shield of cheer which briefly marked his features at the rustling of his fine filly.

The pit in his stomach still churned, twisting his nerves at the thought of what they had lost.

Their wonderful baby girl. 

Sleep was difficult for him. More than it usually was, thoughts of his life before mixed with the grief of the here and now. The back of his gloved hand wiped at his eyes, allowing hisself to feel awash with that remorse. He wanted to be home, at the ranch. To be with them often. But his mind had not ceased. It never would. Work called, money needed making. Any odd job here or there, how big or small the task was, mattered little in his mind. Whatever it took to keep himself preoccupied. Jack was the man of the ranch, then, taking care of his mother. Uncle too, the old fool chipping in notably twice as much before John departed. He had to give the man credit. John had only left because she allowed him to. The sickening pain that bore into him with every look she would give, knowingly or not. She couldn’t bear the sight of him. He knew, in that moment. In those first few days. Jack was a hard enough pill to swallow in that time, but the boy provided a care he simply could not. The love and comfort of a child.

With another, raspy sigh Marston climbed atop Kep and gave his tongue a sharp few clicks, setting the two off along the trail just as a cooling breeze had set in. With that, his mind wandered still. He rode the wave, his mind ready, walls shattered if only briefly.

What would Arthur have said in that moment, amid their trauma? Would he even be able speak at all? A snide comment, John wagered, but something told him it would have been more than just that. Losing a child changes a person, a parent. John knew parents were often fools, scrambling to provide something better and often failing at it. And he failed at many things in his life. Arthur wouldn’t help his grief - not that kind. He was nothing more than a ghost in John’s life, a weight upon his back—same as the others, from the time before. The cowboy suffered the hauntings, endured them all, many as they were. John would be haunted until the day he died. And now another soul was looking over him until that day came. Another set of eyes he wished so terribly he could see. 

Upon reflection, his thoughts could only drift further. Sadie, Charles, Lenny: what would they say? Would they console? Ms. Grimshaw and Mary-Beth and Tilly, how they might soothe Abigail’s mind, comfort her grief in a way only a woman could understand. He cursed at himself, not wanting to ponder the what-if but Marston found himself a weak man then, upon the precipice of grief and acceptance.

How happy Hosea would have been, had he known the Marston’s could have ushered another child into the world. Another thing to make the grandpa smile, John supposed. How terrible he would feel at the loss of her. The hugs he would bestow Marston and his family, something the man sorely missed. Hosea would know just what to say. 

Wouldn’t he?

He wanted his thoughts of Bill and Javier to be better, but he could not bring himself to forget despite the pain that lingered. The betrayal of his brothers, the abandonment and utter disregard. She would have deserved better than the likes of them, same as Jack. 

John’s feet clicked against Kemp’s haunches, picking up her speed as they barreled down into the valley in order to work his way back up state. It wouldn’t be long now. He wanted to be home, have his mind blank until then, but all he could think of in that moment was him.

If only Dutch could see him now. 

What would _he_ say? What venomous lie or half-truth would the man convey in that moment. A sweet nothing, an expired salve. He’d voice his disappointment, surely, another thing his supposed son failed at. 

For all of Dutch’s boasting and delusions of grandeur, and the shred of sincerity underneath it all which eroded with time, as his mind slipped away, John found it funny how, in the end, he somehow managed even a sliver of the dream Dutch had often dreamt.

To be free, amongst family, left alone and with time to spare. Through hard work, through pain and clarification, duty and sacrifice. Through luck and money. Less noise, more faith.

It was funny how life worked, he thought, as it toyed endlessly with the strings of.. fate, or chance, or, frankly, Marston didn’t care what it might have been. All he could imagine was the burning-red vitriol in his fathers eyes. The disappointment.. the envy. Another insult to belittle the golden boy. He could scoff. The golden boy. Arthur loved using that.

John would have spat were it not for the speed at which Kep rode and his own, mild chuckle. 

—

Kep rode hard, galloping along the ridge until there was another clearing. The skies had shifted from that pretty sort of blue to a much prettier, much darker shade of violet mixing with the orange of the setting sun. Her hooves made contact with the clearing and set off into the ever expansive fields, hustling along. The pair kept up a good rhythm. Months, years of practice and trust. He fed her well, controlled the flow of exertion when needed. As impatience had gotten the better of him so often, he almost pushed too hard, but would always double-back with her and hold off. Every day was a struggle; a test, a choice. Of who Marston was, of what he could do and who he wanted to be. Kep deserved the best of him, and so did the others. 

Night would soon come, and with that it meant a possible ambush or.. wild animals, a stranger in need, or perhaps nothing at all. None of it mattered then, not before the gunslinger wore the most faint of looks as Beecher’s Hope slowly came into view. Even as joy filled his heart, so did that building, inescapable dread.

Three months. Three months to the day since she had passed. The anniversary weighed heavily on his mind, and so it must have weighed twice as harshly upon the rest of his family, Abigail most of all. Of course it did. He knew better, he did. The closer he got, the more of a failure he began to feel. Maybe Dutch was right.

After all he had done: all the robberies and murder, the pain and trauma, the infighting and honest heroics, he wanted to do right. He wanted to be right. Be free, with his family. An honest living. But with every thought of his daughter, it chipped away at him. Another child he failed, despite it being out of his hands. Life was often a cruel and unfortunate thing, he knew better than most. It always found a way to wear him down.

But he wouldn’t let it win. Not now, not again. 

Kep was tired, worn out from the intense day of riding. But she was done, content to enjoy the peace that night brought. He gave her another apple, and left with the promise that she would be brushed twice as good come the morning.

He set up the small stairs, giving Uncle a look. The old man lay against the wall, on the floor, plastered, muttering to himself innocently enough. John could only sigh and shake his head. 

The others must have been inside. 

He held his tongue, not announcing his return so cheerfully given the day and his state of mind. Inside, he found Jack in his room, engrossed by the good graces of another book. Rufus was right there with him, by the boy’s side. In his haze, he hardly noticed his fathers return - but John merely smiled, letting his son be as he kept the door close to being shut. 

He took a breath.

Abigail was in the kitchen, her hands wet with the leftover grime and soap of work as she tended to the dishes. Dinner had long since passed. John would have lamented his poor timing, but given her cooking it was.. a small blessing. Food hardly had taste in those first few weeks after her passing anyhow. He stepped in, and leaned against the open frame of its entrance. He wanted to speak, but refrained. He wanted to say so much, yet couldn’t.

How a man could have such a way with words, but still stumble so roughly at critical points, was one of life’s many contradictions. Or, perhaps, Dutch’s. The man had many.

She continued working, but felt his presence. She knew. Abigail always did. She was sharp as a whip and besides, he smelled of the outside. Of a long, arduous day. Still, she let him remain. She let him linger. He watched her. Not just in a physical sense, but to the credit of her spirit. Abigail was a hard woman who had been through much. Too much. Often, she asked too much - of him, of life itself - but he could hardly blame her. She felt owed. Something, anything. A nice ranch with a happy family and an honest living was the beginning, but to be denied the graces of another child - a daughter especially - worked itself into her like a knife, its molten-hot blade unrelenting. 

Despite that.. she remained. Strong, steady. Those first few weeks were pure agony, leaving them numb, but she recovered. She buried the pain amidst the remains of her past, another trauma in a long line of misfortune. There were enough graves already.

He closed the gap between them in that instant, coming up to wrap his arms around her. She gasped, softly, initially caught off-guard by the action and so she wore a look of annoyance and disgust—but as he lay his head against her shoulder, his eyes shut tightly but still wet with the faintest tears—she softened, and could only place a hand against his as he held her. 

John knew better than most, that action spoke much louder than any word ever could. Abigail shifted, turning herself around to face him- to face the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. He was a fool, but he was hers. And in the look he gave, she had read it all over his face. She was good at that.

His grief, his remembrance, his disappointment - not at her but himself - and most of all, his love. He wandered often, needed time to think. John spent much of his life alone despite being surrounded by so many. Conflict, both inner and outer, was his bread and butter as much as the land was. He felt conflicted over a thousand things, but what he was sure of - was her, his Abigail. 

Marston was a great many things. Good, bad, stupid, smart. But above all, he was there.

Hosea, Javier, Grimshaw, Arthur.. Dutch. 

He was alone in the world, in that sense. A wolf without a pack except the one he made for himself. The Van der Linde gang was but a ghost, a fleeting shadow which he forced to pull himself away from. Only then would he become who he wanted to be. They were not there, but he was. He always had been. Nothing to rely on but himself and what he helped built. 

It was him, it was always him. 

Their lips met as soon as Abigail was overcome with tears of her own, the emotion of all that time bubbling to the surface. 

They would survive, the Marston’s would be survive.

For a time...

For a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow [@RichmanBachard](https://twitter.com/RichmanBachard) and [@RichmanSFW](https://twitter.com/RichmanSFW) to keep up with my stories, my commission info, and my insanity.


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